


aftermath*

by heterophobe (orphan_account)



Series: aftermath* [1]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Discussion of Abortion, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced miscarriage, M/M, Mpreg, lol what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:53:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/heterophobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks back to before, Justin’s dreams of life as a stepford fag. It’s fucking ironic is what it is. If only he could see Brian now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one.

The waiting room is filled with snivelling old grandmas, and snotty-nosed kids, and Brian has this itching sensation to get as far away from it as possible. The smell of canned breath and rarely-vacuumed carpet is circulated through the air drafts, breeding with itself incestuously til the air particles are so stale they can be tasted via breathing in through one’s mouth.

 

When his name is called he’s up faster than a lightning strike, out of his seat and into the office sooner than the doctor can ask. God, if he’d known the first time he’d been, that the GP could be this terrifyingly family-friendly he never would’ve agreed to come back in for his results.

 

“Mr. Kinney would you like to take a seat?” The doctor asks, his gnarled fingers tapping impatiently on the hard surface of Brian’s patient chart. He seems, _uncomfortable_ , which is odd considering Brian is the one who has to experience this brats-and-twats cesspool without the fortune of recurring exposure and desensitization.

 

“You got it, doc.” He drawls sarcastically, pulling his lips out into an overtly patronizing grin as he props himself up on the patient chair.

 

“I’d like to be _frank_ with you, Mr. Kinney, if that’s alright?”

 

“Sorry doc, you’re not really my type.” The remark is brazen to say the least, and Brian’s doctor tenses uncomfortably at it.

 

“You’re pregnant, Mr. Kinney.”

 

Brian bites his tongue, incredulous, then shrugs into a forced smirk. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

 

“This is not a laughing matter, Mr. Kinney.”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me? Pregnant?” He huffs, “Don’t you have a real diagnosis, or are you just that shit at your job that every little queer boy with a stomach ache gets this shit.”

 

“Let’s review your symptoms, shall we? Nausea, bleeding gums, cramping, fatigue; shall I go on? Sure would be a hell of a coincidence if you’re not, Mr. Kinney. But then again, the blood tests tell me all I need to know, so it’s not really a question of if, is it?” The doctor is knowing, sympathetic, a little more at ease with the conversation now that Brian has begun to freeze up. “If you’d like I could have a nurse come in to discuss your options with you?”

 

The room is quiet for a long time after that. The calculated ticks of the clock on the wall, and the faint sound of screaming children on the other side of the wall weigh heavyily, like the underscore of a nightmare that he can’t seem to wake up from. It dawns on him, much too quickly, that this is real.

 

“Mr. Kinney?” The doctor repeats.

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Brian inhales deeply. “Uh, no. Thanks doc.”

 

“I’d like to prescribe you some prenatal vitamins, Mr Kinney. A decision like this can take a few weeks, it’s better to be safe than sorry.” He thinks about telling this doctor that there’s no way in hell that him, of all fucking people, could raise a kid. That, of course he’ll get an abortion, because Brian Kinney isn’t a full-time father, he’s a shitty part-time one at that. Instead, he nods begrudgingly, and hops off of the high-up patient chair.

 

The doctor scribbles in an atypically neat scrawl on his prescription paper, and hands it to him. “You can fill it up at the counter when you leave.”

 

Without a word Brian is gone, walking out the door, out of the GP’s office, without so much as a glance at the front desk.

 

He rushes out to the ‘vette, his keys in the ignition, but his fingers don’t come close to turning them. He doesn’t cry, nor shout. Hell, he doesn’t utter so much as a mumble of _fuck_. He just stares straight ahead, through the glass sliding doors of the GP, watching as some kid plays with one of the ugly old toys, on the scuffed waiting-room carpet.

 

 _Fuck this_. He thinks, turning the keys abruptly, and speeding the car as quickly out of the place as possible.

 

Anyone would’ve thought his mind would be racing in a moment like this. However, his conscious is silent. It leaves a quarrel of empty space, unformed thoughts fighting violently in his head to be heard. Most of them, form with the note that this is absolutely _Justin’s_ kid, and that go through with it or not, together or not, Justin’s decision or not, _he probably has a right to know_. They give him a headache; he turns up the radio to drown them out.

 

His driving is purposeless: meandering roads in the opposite direction of his loft, back and forth until he’s sure he won’t be able to hear himself think when he stops. He doesn’t know what propels him to do so, but he stops at a pharmacy another five minutes out from Liberty Avenue. The floors are sticky on the soles of his shoes, and the chemist gives him puppy dog eyes when she sees what is prescription is for, like he’s the most adorable thing she’s ever seen.

 

“Congratulations,” She rejoices. Her smile stretches the length of her face, pearly whites on display for all to see. He feels sick.

 

\----

 

When Brian gets home he wants a drink. He supposes it should be a clue that his go to coping method is to drink until he doesn’t have to think anymore.

 

When he can’t bring himself to pour one, he feels the resentment and anger he knew would come, boiling up inside him. _Fuck Sunshine._

Michael has mostly been angry enough with Justin for the both of them since he left, _Brian_ has mostly been depressed. It’s not Justin’s fault, any of it, Brian knows this, but this is the last fucking straw, and more than anything he needs someone to blame. If he doesn’t get angry, he thinks he’ll implode.

 

He thinks back to before, Justin’s dreams of life as a stepford fag. It’s fucking ironic is what it is. _If only he could see Brian now_.

 


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian makes a choice.

The diner is slow today, its regular patrons no-doubt out preparing for the latest anti-homophobia rally at three. The booths are empty, all-but-one at the far end where two old queens are sharing a piece of chocolate cake. Debbie, it seems, has been stuck with the afternoon shift, and not happily so. She looks bored out of her mind, and just about as agitated being stuck here and not out with her crowd, being her usual fag-hag self, as he is being stuck with the dreadful responsibility of making this decision.

 

Brian is conflicted. He’s figured it’s better to just call and get it over with. He knows the longer he waits the harder it’ll be, the more it’ll feel like he’s giving up a _real_ kid. He’d had a hard enough childhood to know it’s better he nip it in the bud than raise the damn thing to be as spiteful and fucked up as he is. Kinneys don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to parenthood.

 

Still, he can’t help but think of Gus, about how, despite how excruciatingly different the circumstances are, one fact holds true: He never thought he would love Gus, never thought he would miss him the way he does, but he does.

 

He swirls the coffee around in his cup, inspecting the lumpy bits of sugar that float in it with an almost-intellectual disgust. This dilemma is doing his head in. Apparently, it shows. Debbie strides over, eyebrows knitted together with worry.

 

“Spill.” She deadpans.

 

If there’s one thing he can appreciate about Deb, it’s that she sure knows how to cut the bullshit when the time calls for it. He tries to pretend he doesn’t hear her, but once he realises she’s not going to go away, he tilts his head to her expectant stare, and then tilts his cup so that some of his coffee spills over its edge, and into the saucer underneath it.

 

“Oops.” He smiles, cunt-y as ever.

 

“Jesus Brian!” She huffs, snatching the cup from him before the coffee can surpass the plate’s brim. “The _fuck’s_ gotten into you?”

As she awaits his reply she leans forward, crossing her arms against the counter, so that she can look him in the eye.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He mumbles, refocusing his gaze on some old crumbs on the empty kitchen counter.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Nothing, Deb. I’m fine _._ ”

 

“Yeah, well, tell that to the bags under your eyes, and your bottom lip when you’re done ripping it to shreds.”

 

Instinctively, he pulls out his bottom lip.

 

“ _What’s wrong,_ _Brian_?” She persists, tilting his head up by the point of his chin so that he can’t avoid her gaze.

 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He means it: His head is pounding, he was tossing and turning all of last night, has been for the last few weeks. That is, whenever he gets round to actually sleeping, while he’s in his bed.

 

Debbie opens her mouth as if she’s about to fight him on it, but shuts it again, deciding to drop it. Smart decision.

 

“Yeah, well. When do you ever?”

 

\----

 

He calls the clinic later that day, to make an appointment. The woman on the phone is technical, procedural in a way that makes Brian feel less tense about the whole thing. He’s not sure he could’ve handled some baby-talking sweetheart speaking down to him, pitying him like this is the toughest thing he’s ever had to do. Fuck them if they think he hasn’t had to deal with a lot worse than this shit show in his lifetime.

                                 

She asks him how far a long he is. This is something he hadn’t particularly bothered to find out. He tells her he’s not sure. He can guess the conception occurred round about the time Justin was leaving though: 10 weeks. 11 maybe? It’s a guess, but she seems happy with it. She tells him to come in on Tuesday at 12, that he can’t eat, drink anything but water, or smoke for two whole days before hand, and that he needs to arrange for someone to drive him home afterward. She cautions him to take the day off, and explains that all of the further necessary aftercare procedures will be explained to him before he undergoes the surgery, and after he is released from the hospital.

 

“Do you have any questions, Mr. Kinney?” The receptionist asks.

Brian shakes his head, no, before he realises that she can’t see him.

 

“No, thanks.” Promptly, he hangs up the phone.

 

_A ride home._

 

He thinks about calling Michael, but dismisses the idea when he thinks about the round of worried interrogation that’ll come, an unwarranted guarantee, if he ever asks Mikey the question “Can you give me a ride home from the hospital?”

 

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Mikey so much, it’s that he’s afraid of what Mikey has to say about this. Brian loves the kid, but he sure knows how to stick his opinion where it doesn’t belong – sometimes that’s a necessary thing, but sometimes it really isn’t. This, is one of those times. He doesn’t know if he can handle Mikey telling him not to go through with it, or worse, telling him he needs to tell Justin. He wants to put the whole ordeal behind him as quickly as possible, so telling someone about it who’ll probably think he needs to _work_ through it, or something shrink-y like that isn’t exactly productive. For this, Brian needs someone who’ll shut up about what they think, and not try to make small talk on the car ride home. He figures that any odd taxi driver can do that better than anybody he trusts enough to tell.


	3. three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindsay stops by.

Brian’s hair is damp with sweat, and the colour in his cheeks is drained. He looks like shit. Hell, he feels like shit. His insides are knotted, and pulling at each other from every which angle, bitter sick sticks to the back of his throat. Sunday morning, screw sleeping in, dry retching over an automatic toilet seems to be where it’s at. His thoughts linger on the precautions for his surgery, if this nausea doesn’t die down before twelve, waiting ‘til Tuesday to eat with nothing but a stomach full of bile is going to be a blast.

 

It’s the sound of the door scraping against the wall as it slides open that brings him from his stream of consciousness. He listens as somebody closes the door, and shuffles around his apartment. Usually, he’d be worried, but since he hadn’t been out tricking last night, and had locked the door when he got home from work, the only people who could have even opened the door were the people who had keys: Mikey, Lindsay, and… _Justin_. He rests his forehead against the palms of his hands, sighing deeply in an attempt to pull himself together before whoever it is comes to find him.

 

He hates the wave of relief, and even more the pinch of disappointment he feels when he hears Lindsay calling out his name.

 

“Brian?”

 

She edges her way into the bedroom, pausing when she spots him, hunched over the toilet, through the open bathroom door. She’s got Gus tucked against her side, bouncing him on the curve of her hip as she stares analytically at Brian.

 

“Looks like _someone_ was out playing too hard last night. You look like shit.”

 

Brian pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to overcome the urge to gag, again. “Thanks.” His grimace is potent. He can’t bring it upon himself to reply to Lindsay in anything more than a monosyllable, doesn’t trust that his stomach won’t turn if he lifts his head up or opens his mouth.

 

She sits on the edge of Brian’s bed, dawdling her fingers along Gus’ back as he drifts off. She watches Brian as he recomposes himself, splashing his face with water and gargling mouthwash. He looks tired, the kind of bone-deep tired that lingers even after a good night’s sleep. “How’re you doing? Since Justin, I mean?”

 

Brian’s doesn’t look at her directly. Instead, he inspects his reflection intently in the mirror. “Since who?” She knows that he’s heard her, but decides to drop it knowing that if Brian doesn’t want to talk about it, pushing him to open up is only going to do more damage than good.

 

Lindsay rolls her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

“It’s true, I am.”

 

It’s silent for a moment; he sits next to her on the bed, holding his hands out in an unspoken request to hold his son. Reluctantly, she hands him over. Lindsay thinks Brian will vouch to change the topic but when he doesn’t she can’t seem to help herself. “You had it coming, you know.”

 

“I know,” he nods, not quite meeting her gaze.

 

It’s quiet again. They sit side by side, looking ahead. Lindsay fiddles with her hands in her lap, while Brian runs his up and down the length of Gus’ back. He looks sad.

 

“You could’ve stopped him if you’d wanted to.”

 

“I know.”

 

Another tense pause lingers, but is broken when Lindsay asks, “So why didn’t you?”

 

Brian looks at her incredulously, but doesn’t make an effort to answer. Instead he plays affectionately with the hairs on Gus’ head.

 

“You love him, we all know you do.” It’s not a question, but she utters it as if it deserves an explanation.

 

“I saw him with his boyfriend yesterday, he _seems_ happy.” He knows she says it to comfort him, but the feeling is bittersweet. Again they are met with silence: Brian, more intent on playing with a sleeping Gus than acknowledging that Lindsay had said anything at all.

 

The next time he speaks, his words are quiet, hesitant, like he’s taking a risk even opening his mouth. “Did you love Gus, before he was born?”

 

“Uh,” Lindsay’s confronted by the question, and fumbles her lips as if she’s trying the shape of her words around her mouth. “I- I guess I- loved the _idea_ of him, but- he wasn’t, _wasn’t real_. He wasn’t _here_. And when he _was_ , it was intense, it was- more than _life_.”

 

Brian wishes he hadn’t asked.

 

The scene is picture-perfect, Lindsay grabs Brian’s unoccupied hand, pulling it into her lap and interlocking their fingers. She doesn’t understand the way his brows are drawn together in deep-thought, but she rubs her thumb across his. A touch that screams, _I’m here._ A touch that echoes, _I love you._

Brian squeezes her hand in reply, the corners of his lips tugging up just barely. They stay like that a long time, Gus asleep against Brian’s chest, Brian’s hand in Lindsay’s. Brian would never admit it but he's glad he's not alone, and Lindsay understands that his silence is the closest he’ll ever get to saying thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a little short, didn't want to drag it out thought it was ok the way it was.


	4. four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian goes to the clinic.

He stands outside the clinic for a long time. It’s cold, but he’s half an hour early and he can’t bring himself to walk in yet. His hands are in the pockets of his overcoat, feeling around the shape of his cigarette box. He’s itching for a smoke, figures he can light one up while he’s waiting for the cab to come take him home.

 

The bench by the entrance is wet with beads of rain, and the woman that sits on it has a bitter look on her face, like she's just stepped in a grimy puddle: socks and all. Brian exhales, seeing his breath form in front of him: visible, almost tangible. He’s caught up in this moment, where everything feels _surreal_ , light and airy like it’s not really happening to him. Once this is over, it’ll be gone completely. Nothing to prove it really happened but a tiny red scar across the bottom of his abdomen.

 

He can’t help the overwhelming surge of relief that comes across him at the thought. Like a weight lifted from his shoulders, he can finally breathe. He knows Justin, knows if he ever found out that Brian was having a kid, he’d feel obliged. This procedure is a way out, a certain escape from a situation he can’t even begin to think about handling otherwise.

 

Brian opts for braving the waiting room when he spots a group of pro-lifers across the road. He scrapes his shoes on gravelly ground, as the automatic doors swing open. It’s smaller than he expected inside. A few chairs line the edges of the room and a high-counter desk, with two office chairs, and a landline sits across from the entrance.

 

He keeps his eyes on the floor as he makes his way over, pulling a strip of gum out of the packet in his pocket and chewing it absentmindedly. He approaches the counter-top.

 

“I’m here to check in.” Brian says, blasé, resting his forearms across the stretch of the countertop, hands clasped together underneath his chin. The man at the desk is startled by his voice, quite clearly oblivious to the fact that Brian had been standing, waiting for some kind of greeting. His flustered attendance reminds Brian of Emmett.

 

“Sure thing. What’s your name honey?”

“Brian Kinney.” The words are hard and slow, like he’s spelling them out for a child. They taste bitter on the tip of his tongue. The secretary either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care though, because as soon as Brian can finish uttering his name, Harry (or, so his name tag reads) has a cheery-as-ever reply, ready and waiting to be spit back.

 

“Okie sweetie, Just take a seat, a nurse will be with you in… ooooh, about fifteen.”

 

Brian doesn’t say much else after that, just nods, and continues chewing his gum. Slowly, he leans back off the counter top and dawdles his way over to one of the nearer unoccupied seats.

 

He flips through some of the magazines he finds on the table: Men’s health, Androcology 101. He doesn’t actually read anything inside, but rather, likes the feel of the pages in his hands, like he’s doing something and not just _waiting_ for somebody else to. It makes him feel less powerless, more in control of his own life.

 

\----

 

When his name is called he hardly expects it. A pale woman in dreadful floral scrubs stands at the edge of the room, her frizzy hair is pulled back into a loose bun. She looks over the room expectantly, then down back at the chart in her hand when she's met with no response. He stands up, hands gripping the objects in both of his pockets so hard that his knuckles turn white.

 

Brian grimaces when they make eye contact. The woman smiles, acknowledging him, and leads him into another room.

 

“Hi Brian,” She says, closing the door. She seems at ease, as if she’s done this thousands of times. “I’m Sam, I’m going to be one of your nurses today.”

 

Brian nods, swallowing the nervous lump that’s stuck in his throat.

 

Sam grabs his patient file, and a stack of pamphlets from the base of a plastic chair, then sits down and motions for Brian to do the same.

 

“You’re scheduled to start in about twenty minutes, but before you go in we usually like to sit down with our patients and explain the procedure and the types of post-op cautions they should be taking: things they should be _looking out for_ that might point to a complication, things that might increase the _risk_ of complication, answer any questions, stuff like that.” Everything about her screams positive, and it grates on Brian immensely, but he understands that she’s just trying to do her job. So he grits his teeth, and tries for his best smile.

 

“We understand it can all be a little overwhelming so I’ll just give you the basics now, and afterward the post-op nurse, or one of our interns, will come give you some of these pamphlets to take home in case you miss something, or forget.”

 

“Okay.” His mouth feels dry.

 

“We use local anaesthesia for this type of procedure, so you’ll be awake. You might feel a tugging sensation, that’s normal, but you shouldn’t feel any pain. I’ll probably be asking you questions, we’ll try to keep you talking.”

 

He nods again.

 

“After we finish up you’ll have to stay in post-op for an hour, the doctor will prescribe you some pretty strong pain medication for after the anaesthesia wears off, and a weaker variety to take the next few days, but you probably won’t need to take anything until a while after you get home.”

 

The next words she speaks are said softly, empathetic in a way the Brian hates, but can’t help but warm to. “I hate to ask but I notice you’re alone today, the desk clerk did explain to you that you need to have someone else drive you home?”

 

Brian rolls his lips in, and then out again. He scratches behind his ear awkwardly as he speaks. “Yeah, I got someone.”

 

The nurse pauses at the vagueness in his answer, but accepts it nonetheless: Ever so gently reverting back into the ball of sunshine she’d been upon entering. “Okay.”

 

She smiles, and with a calculated kindness goes on to discuss potential risks, reassuring him - of course - that they are very rare, and that if he were to one day decide to have children it is very unlikely his fertility would be affected. He doesn’t exactly know what to make of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did a lot of research on the abortion process for this, and since a surgical (vacuum) abortion doesn't necessarily make sense biologically with mpreg, i've tried to adapt my own process with the information i know :) i hope it makes sense. please let me know what you think x


	5. five.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam performs an ultrasound.

Before the procedure, Sam explains, she has to perform a sonogram to confirm the positioning and size of the foetus. Brian is squeamish at this, but nods nonetheless. He’s not exactly bounding at the seams with a hesitant emotional connection to the sack of cells under his belly button, but, he’s afraid seeing it like that, out blank in front of him and shaped like a baby on a little blurry grey screen, will make things too _real_ , Will make it harder.

 

The chair is uncomfortable, and it sticks to his skin where the back of his shirt has ridden up as he’s pulled up the front. This is the first time he’s really been forced to look at his body since finding out, he can see the way his abs have loosened up, the ever so slight distension under his belly button, so slight no one else could’ve noticed, but he can. His stomach lurches, he wants to throw up: Get this entire day out of his system and over and done with.

 

The screen is turned away from him so that he can’t see the picture. He appreciates it a lot; figures he’s not the first to either. The temperature of lube on his stomach is jolting. He flinches, and the nurse smiles sympathetically.

 

Methodically, she places the wand against his abdomen, her eyes searching. Thirty or so seconds pass, and it seems she can’t find what she’s looking for. Her face scrunches, confused. After a minute, nothing changes, and Brian can’t help the impatient drawl that comes from him, a second nature.

 

“What?”

 

Sam takes a step backward, lifting the wand from Brian’s skin and turning off the machine. She looks conflicted.

 

“Uh, it seems, there’s no heartbeat.”

 

“I’m not pregnant?” The question comes out frustrated, angry, but the realisation of what she’s saying dawns on him before she has a chance to correct his mistake.

 

“Oh.” His articulation is neither happy, nor sad. It’s just ‘oh’, said as simply, and matter-of-factly as it would have been if his realisation was something as simple as ‘shit, I forgot to pick up the dry cleaning’, or ‘hey, that actor was in another movie I’ve seen before’

 

Brian breathes out, heavy and slow.

 

“It seems you’ve miscarried, Mr Kinney. If your estimations are correct about the conception, the size of the foetus suggests that it stopped growing very recently, perhaps in the last day or two.”

 

He nods, reserved. The information is overwhelming; he doesn’t know how to respond. It’s not like he was going to keep the thing anyway, it doesn’t seem like the truth to be sad, but the thought of being happy doesn’t sit well with him either. Instead, he’s left to linger in-between the two emotions, drifting in an odd state of numbness.

 

“Can I go then?”

 

The nurse shakes her head, no. Then makes her way round the table so she’s standing aside Brian. She hands him some tissues to clean up. “Your body has rejected the foetus, but because of the difference in anatomy from that of a female pregnancy, it can’t expel the foetus. That’s what all the fuss is about the dangers of male pregnancy, without modern medicine childbirth and miscarriage would be fatal to both parties, most of the time. It used to be a death sentence.”

 

There’s a beat of silence, Brian feels a little stupid for suggesting leaving in the first place.

 

“Right.”

 

“We’ll have to go ahead with the procedure as planned.”

 

Brian tightens his lips, and edges down his shirt.

 

“If you’d like to follow me, I’ll get you prepped while the doctor scrubs in.”

 

\---

 

The procedure is faster than he thought it would be. His middle is numb, but it tugs in some places. The nurse, Sam, asks him awkward questions about his job, the weather, and some dumb movie he saw with Mikey last week. Not once, does she dare to broach the subject of family, nor relationships. He thinks back to not even an hour ago, when her beaming smile and positive presence annoyed him outrageously, he’s filled with a new appreciation of the way she does her job: she has common sense, he likes that.

 

When they finish up, she and another nurse help him into a wheelchair and take him to a bed into the recovery ward. Once he’s settled, the second nurse leaves.

 

Sam stays a moment longer. She smiles at him, sympathetic. “You’re a real trooper, Brian.”

 

He smiles crookedly, staring at his hands clasped on the bed in front of him.

 

She writes something on his patient chart, and then clips it to the end of his bed. “A post-op nurse will be with you a little later.”

 

Sam turns to leave, and Brian doesn’t know why but he calls her back. “Wait.”

 

She stops in her track, facing him with an expectant smile.

 

“Thanks,” his lips are a tight line, but his words are genuine.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” She puts her hands deep into the pockets of her scrubs, her smile reminds him of Sunshine’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so.. again this chapter's shorter than usual but i'm happy with how it turned out :) it was a bugger to write, please let me know what you think xx


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